


playing with fire

by armario



Category: Saw (Movies)
Genre: 10k words rewriting a coherent franchise into self-indulgent mess, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Gen, Glass Coffin has Room for Two AU, Hoffman Saves Strahm AU, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, follows movies 4-7, in which every door is open or easy to open, plotless because it's bad not because of porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-04 13:01:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12169392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armario/pseuds/armario
Summary: "Tell me how to open it."His voice is distorted through the glass. Mark just stares him down. He's calculating whether or not it's safe, or worth, letting Strahm survive. The probability is that given the slightest chance, the agent will attempt to kill him, or arrest him. But there's a slightest chance that he could be turned to see Hoffman's point of view, and become a valued accomplice.





	playing with fire

**SAW IV**

Peter's always hated Hoffman. He's too detached.

God knows, they've worked around each other for years, acting as liaisons for their respective organizations. But the tension between them has never quite lessened.

They're working late. It's just the two of them, in the office. Perez went home to see her mom, which had been earlier encouraged by Strahm.

  
"We'll be fine. It's just paperwork, and there won't be another murder tonight. Even Jigsaw needs a break," he told her. She smiled weakly, and glanced doubtfully at Hoffman, who didn't duck his head but continued to stare disdainfully at Peter.

Peter can't quite work him out.

  
He looks over, where Hoffman is hunched in the corner looking specifically threatening, even though he seems to be taking a break on the job.

  
"Hey, are you asleep?" Strahm takes great pleasure in raising his voice to startle and humiliate the other man. Maybe he's tired and deserves a nap. Maybe he's an asshole who wouldn't hesitate to mock Peter in any situation.

  
Hoffman starts, but in a typically muted way that characterizes all of his behaviour. It involves blinking awake and narrowing his eyes, and subtly reaching for his sidearm. If it were Peter's way, Hoffman would not be allowed within five metres of any weapon, for reasons only his natural instincts could explain. The detective hasn't gotten violent towards him so far. But the calm ones are usually the ones internally plotting your murder.

  
"Sleeping on the job, _Mark_ , not professional," he says smoothly, tapping his pen against his paper as he smirks.

  
"Hold your tongue, _Peter_ ," Mark answers coolly, leaning forward. There's no use in denying the fact that he's intimidating, but that's the _point_ \- no one else really has the guts to wind him up like this.

  
"If you're lagging behind, I can get Erickson to give you some time. Take a vacation. It's not like you're all that crucial to the case right now, anyway, Detective," Peter continues, emphasizing the last word.

  
Hoffman gets up out of his chair and slowly advances towards Peter's desk. In the dim office light, he looks quite ominous. Peter's stomach swoops, and that's not an effect that an upholder of the law should inflict.

  
"It's almost like you're trying to get a reaction out of me. Let's not forget who's doing the real work here," he tells him. 

  
Peter stands to face him so they're practically nose to nose. "I never forget," he whispers, too close, so he grins and waits. 

  
On the one hand, he didn't see it coming- but on the other, he _should_  have. Hoffman's fist smashes into the side of his face and he recoils in pain.  _"What the fuck-!"_

The detective doesn't let up, disrupting his desk to grab his shirt collar and slam him against the wall. His head's thrown back and little sparks of pain flash behind his eyes as it makes contact with the brick. Through blurred vision, he watches Hoffman's face, fingers curled around the wrists connected to hands that are pinning him in place.

  
The world spins dizzyingly. He waits until it rights itself. He's cracked, they're both cracked, they're officers of the _law_ -

  
"Hey," he says placatingly, voice treacherously soft and cracking, unable to believe his own reaction to the situation.

  
Mark is breathing raggedly, holding Peter's gaze as he presumably tries to calm down.  
The agent tightens his grip on Mark's wrists, who thankfully loosens his hold at the prompt. Peter rubs the back of his head, feeling a lump form, and blinks away the residual throbbing pain.

  
He feels himself tip forward a little, and Mark holds him steady, no longer maintaining eye contact.

  
"I apologize," he states, his tone carefully controlled. And that's a fucking miracle. Mark Hoffman, apologizing, to _him_. Then he looks back up. "Let me see that..."

  
He turns Strahm around and parts his hair a little to see the forming injury. A hand that only a moment ago tried to shatter his jaw brushes over the blood on his cheek.

When Strahm faces him again, Hoffman is looking calmer, but there's something different in his expression. Something less cold.

  
"You should have left it," he says.

  
Peter doesn't have to think about it much, and when he replies, it's sincere. "I know. Are you...?" He starts to ask if he's okay, but then trails off, because the expression being levelled at him simply says  _don't._

Only then, in the silence, do they both start to consider their position. Hoffman's hands unmoving from his shoulders. Peter, who's been watching him with some sort of enchanted, fearful, and curious expression for a few minutes now without even realising it.

If the tension was noticeable before, it's a glaring neon sign right now.

  
_He's going to back away..._  thinks Peter, but he doesn't, and so the agent rests his hand on the back of Hoffman's neck, warning him of the direction this is going, scarcely able to comprehend it himself.

  
It's clearly concussion that makes him unsteadily close the gap between them, fitting his mouth to Hoffman's gently, testing the water. Hoffman never moved up until that stage, so the other man has the sole blame, but now they're kissing with an intensity Peter finds it hard to keep up with, and he thinks his lip is bleeding.

  
He tries his best not to make a sound when Hoffman shoves him back onto his desk.

  
"What is this?" Peter asks breathlessly, leaning up on his arms.

  
"You tell me," Hoffman rumbles, crowding him in closer.

  
Strahm thinks about it for a second, thinks about a lot of things. Why he's doing it, why he wants it, how Hoffmancan want this. Then he realises he hasn't answered.

  
"Stress relief," he decides. In return, Hoffman smirks, something resembling approval that's he's never cast in Peter's direction, not ever. He's starting to think what he had mistaken for hatred towards the detective was actually something quite dissimilar.

  
"Come on," he whispers.

  
As told, Hoffman starts undoing Peter's belt. The sound he makes when Hoffman's hand curls round his cock is fucking embarrassing to say the least, but he can't bring himself to care, bucking his hips helplessly.

  
"Long time for you, Strahm?" taunts Hoffman, teasing him with loose strokes.

  
"Shut up," the agent snaps, ridding the other of his belt in turn and sliding his pants down.

"I don't have lube," he states, wishing he'd come prepared.

  
Hoffman gives him a curious look. "Didn't think you'd be so ready to be my bitch," he says, darkly amused. Strahm's nearly hissing with anger, but he doesn't return with any obvious counter, choosing instead to position his hands beneath Mark's shirt to rake the skin, if necessary, or if the mood takes him.

Hoffman spits into his hand, gives an incredulous expression when Strahm declares _that's fucking gross_ \- and in return,  _you just came on to me and your hand's all over my dick, but it's my spit you're worried about?_ \- and shuts him up when he grasps a slick hand around both of them and starts to grind.

"Fuck," Peter says eloquently, which becomes a theme in the next few minutes, dropping his head onto Mark's shoulder so as not to watch his smug expression. He rocks his hips, one arm now slung around the other man's neck, the other hand digging sharp nails into the detective's back. It will mark, but he'll have the worse time if he has to explain away the bruises on his hips.

And then Hoffman decides to bite his neck, hard, and Peter whines, and now he's dragging his nails because a), that's going to show, and b), Hoffman's laughing at him.

"Fuck, fuck, fucking hell," Peter gasps, forcing the pace to get more frantic. Mark has mastered the twist and pressure that Peter won't last long under.

His orgasm builds, waves of pleasure starting in his stomach. Everything is hot and desperate, Peter is leaning up to clack their teeth together in a messy kiss, hoarsely telling Mark he's a piece of shit and he's had enough of him against his mouth. Mark just grins, grips Peter's hair and yanks his head back. His eyes flutter closed in pain and he just begs, "come on come on pleasepleaseplease" till he shudders and comes, full body, overwhelmed, shivering with aftershocks.

Breath pushed out of him with every overstimulating thrust, he returns the favour and sinks his teeth into Mark's shoulder who comes almost upon command at that.

"Fuck, Peter," he grits out unexpectedly, giving a shaky sigh.

The office is silent then, save for their labored breaths. Peter doesn't move his arm from Mark's neck for a while, until the other backs away.  
He wipes off his hand and dick then throws Peter the box of tissues, who sets to cleaning himself up.

  
"Not bad, Hoffman," he says, sounding much less self assured than he did earlier.

Hoffman inclines his head, smiling for a fraction of a second.

"I need a mirror," Peter frets. "How the fuck am I supposed to explain all this? Oh yeah, I got bit by a fucking bear last night."

"Feisty lady," Hoffman supplies.

"A feisty lady who hit me in the face and slammed me into the wall," mutters Strahm.

"Foreplay."

"Yeah."

*

Perez walks in the next day and something's off.

"How was it last night?" she murmurs quietly to Peter when she thinks Hoffman won't notice. She doesn't trust that detective, not by a long stretch. And it's no secret that he and Peter aren't exactly best buddies.

"What?" Peter blinks, eyes wide.

She frowns. "Hoffman. Did you survive a night with him? Did he do anything weird?"

"Um, no. Everything was fine. He, uh, fell asleep on the job though," Peter raises his voice at that last part.

Perez surreptitiously glances at Hoffman, who once again, is staring unapologetically at Peter, with what could be murder in his eyes.

Peter turns, and catches that look. He quickly turns back round, looking deeply uncomfortable.

"If he's giving you any trouble-"

"I'm dealing with it," he answers firmly, risking another look back. He sighs, like he's trying to clear his head. "Anyway. How's your mom?"

*

**SAW V**

*

The weeks go by and there's no progress in the case. Strahm was thinking, maybe that was a one off thing, between he and Hoffman. But it wasn't. It's getting difficult to find words to describe what their relationship has evolved into. In some aspects, it hasn't changed at all. 

Then he starts along a very, very dangerous train of thought, that breaks him. Perez is dying, Hoffman is even more of a prick than usual, skulking around, monosyllabic, like a gargoyle. There's nowhere to turn to, no one who quite understands what he's going through, and then it hits him. 

The files only prove his suspicions. He throws up more times than he can count and when his hands stop shaking, he's going after Jigsaw's apprentice.

*

Strahm has been a pain in his ass for weeks now, but he can't fucking blame him.  
He's crying. Crying angry, helpless tears. Because of Mark, which feels sickly sweet.

"What the fuck happened to you?" he screams, attacking like a wild animal.  


Hoffman is fighting back. "You don't know when to stop, Strahm," he snarls, throwing a punch of his own.  


" _Me?"_  the agent breathes, staggering backward. "Jigsaw's dead, you sick fuck."  


"You don't know what you're talking about."  


"I know you're insane. I know you were a good cop and then you- then that freak got to you, somehow, and you- you kill people!"  


"They kill themselves," he snaps. Strahm's fist connects with his nose, and he can feel the blood, leaving him vulnerable enough for Strahm to slam him into the coffin.  


But, fuck, he doesn't know what he's done. Despite his warning.  


"I got you, you motherfucker," Strahm crows, pressing his hands to the glass.  


As soon as the lock mechanism kicks in, the wall start to move. Hoffman feels a little uncomfortable at the thought of watching his former colleague, reluctant acquaintance, and infrequent lover be crushed to death.  


Strahm runs to stop the walls from closing in, but they both know it's useless. He looks utterly hopeless.  


"Tell me how to open it."  


His voice is distorted through the glass. Mark just stares him down. He's calculating whether or not it's safe, or worth, letting Strahm survive. The probability is that given the slightest chance, the agent will attempt to kill him, or arrest him. But there's a slightest chance that he could be turned to see Hoffman's point of view, and become a valued accomplice.  


"How do I open it?" Strahm shouts. There's a level of hysterical panic to his voice. He narrows his eyes and seems to decide Hoffman isn't going to be merciful, running back over to slam his shoulder against the wall as though that'll halt it. It doesn't.  
He's going to be crushed. There'll be so much blood, and it will be excruciating. The worst pain, everywhere, all at once. Not even a quick death.

Hoffman disables the lock mechanism, and pushes the door of the coffin open.  


"Get in," he growls, not entirely confident in his own judgement.  


Strahm turns to look at him, shock clouding his features.  


"I said get the fuck in," snarls Mark, and Peter doesn't wait to be told a third time, awkwardly climbing inside. They're pressed together too intimately, but the lid will shut fine.  


"You owe me," Mark whispers into Peter's neck. A lot of people owe him, though few have decided to acknowledge it.  


Peter doesn't respond, breath coming in panicked gasps, gripping Mark's forearms and bowing his head.  


If the situation were reversed, Mark would have bitten Peter's neck and ripped out his throat, maybe dug out his eyes in the process. Luckily, Peter has always held on to his humanity, no matter what.

*

The box slides them into the next room, and as soon as the lock clicks, Peter starts to move.   


"Don't," warns Mark, gripping him by his shirt.   


"Let me up, I'm claustrophobic," the FBI agent frets. Mark allows him to climb out of the coffin, following suit, taking Peter's gun and aiming it levelly at him.   


"You can run, and I will kill you," Mark offers, quickly formulating the rules of this arrangement. "Or you can stay with me."  


"For how long?" Peter asks dubiously.   


"For however fucking long I want you," Mark answers, irritated.   


Strahm stares him down. "So, what, I'm going to be your scapegoat? I'm going to do all your dirty work?"  


"I could use someone's help."  


"Why me? I'm a fed, you idiot, the last person on earth who wants to get involved with your sick games!"  


Peter is totally right, of course. What Mark doesn't say is, _I chose you because I want to trust you. I don't know why but I couldn't watch you die, and you're the only one who I can stand to work with. Please don't fight me._  


Instead, he says, "You're clever, Peter. You found me out. Now you can help me stop your friends from doing the same."  


"Where are you going to keep me?" he laughs hysterically. "In your fucking basement? You don't think the FBI will wonder where I am? That they won't find my research on you?"  


"We're going to burn that," answers Mark. "And... did you ever consider it looks like _you_  did this?"   


"What?"  


"Your phone at the scene of the crime... you sneaking round the FBI office... escaping a Jigsaw trap. Your own words, Strahm- "Jigsaw doesn't make mistakes." No one will stop to think the decorated homicide detective is a Jigsaw apprentice, when you're right in front of them."  


Strahm's expression turns furious. "You son of a bitch."  


Mark softens his voice and steps closer. "Just work with me, and I'll let you go."  


Strahm shakes his head vehemently. "I'd rather fucking die-"  


"I'll kill your entire fucking department, starting with your partner," Mark growls, losing his patience. "Then your parents. Then anyone you've ever spoken to."  


Peter looks like he's going to commit murder himself. Instead, he shouts something unintelligible and punches the wall as hard as he can, knuckles coming away bloody.  


"You could have gotten away. I told you to trust me and you wouldn't."  


"As if you would have let me go," snorts Peter, shaking his head.   


"I would have had to," Mark counters, knowing it to be true as soon as he says it. "You should have trusted me."  


Peter looks despondent. He's angry with himself, more than anything.  


"Let's go," Mark commands softly.  


Peter doesn't resist this time.

*

**SAW VI**

*

  
"Hold this."  


Peter holds it.  


"Pass me the screwdriver."  


He passes it. "What's this one for?" he asks. He's been trying to show Mark his anger by refusing to speak with him, but sometimes his curiosity gets the better of him.   


"They're straps for our subject's arms. They're going to explode if he doesn't complete his tasks in time. Every time he completes a task, he'll be given a key to unlock one of them."   


"That's awful," Peter says.   


"It will be the least of his worries," Mark answers tonelessly, detailing the traps he has set in the abandoned zoo building for William Easton.   


"But what did he do?! How can anyone deserve that?"  


"He kills people. He refuses people life insurance based on an unfair algorithm, signing the death warrants of hundreds of people. He's fucking scum."  


"Why him? He's not the only one."  


"He refused John his life insurance. He could have survived if he'd been allowed to pursue treatment elsewhere, but Easton didn't think it would work. All he could see was the money he would lose, not John's life hanging in the balance."  


It's the most Hoffman has spoken, Peter thinks. It's becoming clear that while Mark resented his mentor in many ways, he also cared for him.   


"Can they really all survive?" the FBI agent asks quietly.   


"No," comes the answer. "But some of them can, if the right decisions are made."  


"I just don't understand how you can pick and choose who dies."  


"Don't forget, Strahm," Hoffman stops what he's doing to address Peter directly. "These people do the exact same."  


*

Peter isn't sure how Mark managed to kidnap so many victims without ever running into trouble. Having seen his scars and inhuman tolerance for pain, Peter suspects he has.

The special agent hasn't ever sustained an injury in the field. Perez seemed to always be the one taking hits, sometimes for him, which he resents deeply. The shock of a bullet striking him sinks deep through his nerves, pushing him into this horribly surreal state where he doesn't even notice he's hit he ground.

He heard the gunshot that was directed towards him, and now he hears three more.  
Then Mark is looming over him, looking sufficiently shaken which makes Peter vaguely smug.

"You're going to be okay," he mutters, hands hovering awkwardly as he decides what to do.

"C-can I call my mom?" Peter asks weakly. He smiles against the pain.

"No. You don't need to, you're gonna be fine."

"Please."

"I said no."

Peter starts to cry with frustration. Frustration at Mark, at his stubbornness, at the pain, at the mixed emotions he's at his wit's end trying to decipher.

Mark stares at him for a second, as though he's at a total loss. Then he fishes his phone from his pocket and dials a number.

"My mom?"

"No."

"911?"

"Don't be fucking stupid," snaps Mark, sounding agitated. He turns away as the call connects.

"Lawrence," he says to whoever's on the phone. "It's- of course you do. I need your help."  
Peter can't hear what 'Lawrence' answers with.

"Peter Strahm," Mark says calmly, and then with a sudden venom he adds, "That's not your concern."

Although it's fascinating, Peter's consciousness is starting to slip away. He closes his eyes, and feels Mark's hand grip his shoulder.

"Help is on the way," he says. "Stay awake. Why did you have to get shot?"

"Long time coming," mumbles Strahm.

"If I'd gotten shot, would you have left me?" Hoffman asks almost clinically.

Peter finds he can't mentally debate the question as easily as he normally would, but even so, it takes a lot of consideration. On the one hand, it would be his perfect chance to escape and stop Jigsaw's games at the same time. But on the other, Hoffman has proved himself surprisingly reasonable, and Peter thinks they might reach an agreement to part ways 'as soon as Jigsaw's work is done'. He's not worked out the ex-detective's motives for helping Jigsaw quite yet, but he can tell he wants to finish it. 

To tell the truth, he would leave Mark to die.

"I don't know," Peter replies.

Mark doesn't speak after that. Not too long after, there's a creaking sound which must be a door, and he stands, drawing his weapon.

There's a strange clacking sound as the stranger approaches.

"Relax, Mark," he drawls. Peter tilts his head and studies the newcomer. Tall, blond, holding a cane- that's all Peter can make out. He looks somehow familiar, but that's probably just his mind tripping up a little.

"Detective Hoffman must care a lot about you, Agent Strahm," says 'Lawrence' conversationally, taking out a case with medical supplies. "He's used my debt to him to save your life."

Peter turns his gaze to Hoffman, who gives nothing away as usual.

"Now, let me take a look..."

*

There was only a matter of time before people started putting two and two together. The FBI aren't stupid.  


Walking into that room, Mark knows this is it. John's recording equipment might have been good, but it wasn't going to hold up against professional government-funded analysis.  


_Right now you're feeling helpless._  


The sound of his words without his voice makes his skin crawl. This is Perez's genius plan, he can tell by the way she's watching him, to put the pressure on him till he cracks.  


"You okay?" she asks. It's so fucking fake. She's never given a shit about him.  


He makes his coffee, listens to her theorising. Why doesn't she just say it? At this stage, it's just theatrics.  


The tape sounds more and more like him. What makes him uncomfortable is the fact that he would recognise it as his own voice almost instantly- had they? Do they know yet, or are they still not sure? It's hard to tell.  


Erickson starts spouting scientific jargon at him, something about uric acid. Patiently, Hoffman waits for him to finish.  


"In other words," he prompts casually, picking his coffee back up, feeling tension coiling up inside him like a spring.  


"In other words, when he left his fingerprints on the latest victim, Strahm was already dead."  


_Right now, you're feeling helpless._  


Mark snaps. It's the knife in his pocket sliding against Erickson's neck, the boiling coffee thrown directly into Perez's self satisfied face. She screams, and that felt fucking good.  
The FBI analyst he's never met before, couldn't give a shit about, becomes a human shield. She takes the bullets meant for him, going limp under his grip. On instinct, he's stabbing Perez. Too many times to call it self defence. The knife goes in easily, with the right pressure applied, and the breath just hisses out of her, blood trickling wet onto his hand.  


"Who else knows about me?" he breathes. His heart rate is through the roof.  


She coughs a little.  


"Who else fucking knows about me?" He twists the knife.  


Perez's bloody hands frame his face, which is too unnerving. There's not usually so much intimacy in the kill.  


"Everyone," she whispers.  


Overcome with rage, Hoffman pushes the blade in deeper. "You lie. You're fucking lying."  


He lets her slide to the floor. Standing there, he realises there's no time to dwell on this. He has to clear the evidence.  


As he's deciding that fire is the best option, another thought crosses his mind. _Peter's going to kill me for this._ Cursing him, he drags Perez by the arms away from the room he'll burn and when he's set fire to it, calls 911 for her. She won't die, she's good at that.

“Hey,” he says, tapping her face so she opens her eyes, barely holding on. “I've got your partner with me. If you say a word about who attacked you, I'll kill him.”

Perez's eyes widen.

“You understand?”

She nods.

*

“Jesus."  


Mark ignores that. The pain in his hand had been strangely worse than that in his cheek, but now they're about level. He doesn't normally cry, he's been shot and stabbed and knocked out before, but he can feel tears pricking at his eyes for the first time in what must be years.  


"What happened?"

He isn't quite ready to talk about that yet, instead starts to root through drawers with his good hand to find a needle and thread.  


"Fucking talk to me," Peter says angrily, coming to stand beside him. "Let me see. Come on."  


Mark looks away but obligingly moves his hands from his face so Peter can see the extent of his injuries.  


"Oh my God," Peter whispers.  


"Reverse bear trap," Mark tells him hoarsely, wincing as his cheek tears a little more, sending a fresh rivulet of blood down his jaw.  


"Okay, don't talk," Peter shakes his head, taking the needle and thread. "How the fuck did you get out of it? No, no, don't answer that. Stay still."  


He won't let Mark do his own stitches because his hands are shaking, but his own aren't the steadiest.  


Mark focuses on the sharp sting of the needle and the burn as the thread is pulled through the wound. He can taste blood, too much of it, swallowing whole disgusting mouthfuls.  


"That should do it," Peter tells him after a while. Reflexively, Mark stretches his jaw. It tugs, but the stitches won't rip just from talking.  


"I'm gonna fucking kill her," he says. Peter doesn't say anything, which means he can't find it in him to object.  


"Did you know she had it?"  


"No. And I'm guessing John- _Jigsaw-_ gave it to her for me," he spits. "That fucking bastard. I did everything for him. I-" he cuts himself off, curling his hands into fists.  


"Tell me how you got out of it," Peter asks curiously.  


Mark sighs. "I had to mangle my hand." He raises it to demonstrate. "I got out of the chair, and there was a screwdriver on the table, so I tried to kind of... cut myself out of it. And then I saw the window. It had two bars on it, so I jammed the trap in between them and it got stuck."  


"Fucking hell."  


"It's up there with emergency tracheotomy," Mark answers flatly and Peter smiles despite the humorless situation.  


"You know, uh, if you wanted to just relax, you could. I wouldn't ... I wouldn't kick a man while he's down, you know?"  


Mark raises an eyebrow.  


"Okay, I might, but I'm telling you I won't."  


"Thanks," drawls Mark. He stands and leaves Peter alone, extending much more trust than usual. Peter hears the shower running for a long, long time. He knows that feeling- when you're not just scrubbing yourself of the day's blood and dirt, but whatever traumatic shit put it there.  


He hears the light click off upstairs and sighs. He's going to have to face up to what he has to do. The opportunity he's been waiting for has finally presented itself, and he's feeling guilty about it? Christ. Maybe he might consider Stockholm syndrome after all. It would be a useful cop-out, so he didn't have to accept any blame.  


Quietly, he makes his way to the kitchen, where he's only ever been allowed while Mark is watching him. And even then, it was only reluctant proof of a willingness to compromise.  
The kitchen is the only normal place in the house. Everywhere else has piled up strange contraptions, blueprints, raw materials, surveillance equipment and weapons. Peter won't risk touching any of those. He's already had enough experience with Jigsaw apprentices that liked to booby-trap their things. Sometimes just for fun.  


But not Mark. He does it because his trust for Peter has increased by only the tiniest percentage, over what must be weeks. Peter almost feels sad for what he's about to do. Mark will probably never trust anyone again.  


He finds the biggest, sharpest knife he can, studying it analytically. He prays he won't have to use it, and make the situation worse.  


He's spent a long time collecting data on Mark's sleeping patterns. He doesn't sleep often, for very long, and rarely soundly. If he catches Mark at the wrong time, then it's game over. Even injured, the  ex-detective is unthinkably dangerous. He knows Mark has nightmares, too.  


When enough time has passed, and it's truly silent in the house, Peter takes a deep breath and creeps up the stairs, having memorised which steps creak.  


There are two rooms upstairs. Mark's is the one on the right, and with the way his bed is positioned, Peter can see if he's awake or not. It seems like a stupid move, but it works both ways. This way, Mark can see intruders too.  


Peter steps inside. He takes a moment to watch his captor/friend sleep. He looks less troubled like this.  


Peter's heart is pounding, and he hopes it won't give him away. He has to make his move now.  


Holding the knife steady in his hand, adrenaline spurs him on to scrabble onto the bed, straddle Hoffman so his knees are pinning down his arms, and the knife is hovering a millimeter above his neck.  


"Don't move," he says. In the dim light from outside (Mark was too fucking tired to draw the curtains and _now_  Peter really feels like shit. The one time he shows any vulnerability, the one person he's ever tried to trust is threatening to kill him.), he can see that Mark is awake and alert, already processing the situation with his usual impassive expression. There is a hint of resignation to it.  


"I'm grateful you saved me," Peter says honestly. "But this isn't right. Here's the deal- I kill you right now, and believe me I will... and I escape. Or, you let me go, and you don't pursue me, and I won't tell anyone anything. Not even... not even about Jill Tuck."  


Mark doesn't move or say anything. Peter absently notices there's blood on his pillow.  


"Put these on," he demands, taking the handcuffs used normally for him from his pocket, shifting minutely so the other man can move his hands.  


Mark takes them with his bad hand, and in the split second it takes for Peter to react, the knife is being wrenched from him with a ferocious strength, and then he feels like he's been punched in the stomach as their positions are reversed.  


"I fucking trusted you," snarls Mark.  


"I know," Peter gasps, suddenly realising _where_  the knife went, and that the pain in his abdomen stems from a stab wound. Mark looks fucking _wrecked._  


"I had to try," he tries to explain.  


"Of course you did," comes the bitter answer. "Get the fuck out of here."  


"Wh-what?"  


Genuinely expecting to die, in fair circumstances, Peter feels shock rattle him to the core.  
Mark moves off of him and backs into the corner of the room. His stitches have ripped. The knife in his hand is gleaming with Peter's blood. "Get out," he spits.  


Peter does, stumbling away and out the door as quickly as he can. Panting in exertion, clutching his stomach, he then realizes that he doesn't know what to do, or where to go from here. 

 

 _Why me?_ his brain is asking hysterically. _Why let me go? Why me why me why me why me-_  
*

**SAW VII**

*

Since Peter 'escaped' from Hoffman, weeks have passed. He knows Jill Tuck is in police custody, but he keeps an ear to the ground for when Mark makes his move on her. True to his word, he hasn't told the authorities anything.  


The first person he thought of to go to was his mom. Then it dawned that he could never go see her again, not while the Jigsaw murders continued and he had to protect Mark as well as her. He cried at that. His stomach was bleeding and he honestly just wanted his mother. The second person he thought of was Perez. Mark had bitterly informed him she was still alive, or had 'cheated death again' as he put it. He said he wouldn't pursue her, because everyone knew who Jigsaw's accomplice was now anyway. _Thanks to you, Strahm_ , he had added with malice.  


He knows her old address, it was unlikely that she moved away. It isn't too far from here, either. No, the problem isn't whether or not Perez is reachable, but her reaction to seeing him again. And he would have to explain what had happened... as well as why he continues to defend Hoffman.  


Even though he's still worrying over the finer details, his legs are already pushing him towards Perez's neighborhood. He knows Mark hasn't stabbed him anywhere vital, because if he really wanted him dead it would be far more theatrical and gruesome.  


"To learn the lesson," he'd once explained, passing on what John Kramer had taught him.  


When Strahm arrives at Perez's home, he can barely find the courage to knock.  


"Please don't freak out," he says automatically when she opens the door.  
What follows is the longest silence Peter has ever experienced, in which Perez is clearly debating her own mental stability.  


"I thought you were dead," she states quietly.  


"Please let me come in. I might need stitches," he cuts in before she has a chance to hit him for letting her think he was dead.  


Realising now might not be the time for admonishing him, she wordlessly lets him past.

"What happened?" Perez asks. He thinks she means his injury, but she could be referring to the past few weeks.

"Hoffman stabbed me," he answers, lifting up his shirt to peer at the wound. It doesn't look like much, but it aches deeply.

"He- what? Why? Why now?"

"I tried to escape. He let me go, though."

" _Why?"_

"I honestly don't know."

"Do you know where he's based at? I could call in a team, tip off the police-"

"I can't, Lindsey," Peter tells her. She narrows her eyes. "I can't. I said I wouldn't tell anyone."

"Do you remember who we're talking about?"

"I know. I know."

"Do you remember what he's _done?!_ "

"Of course I do," he exclaims, almost hysterical.

"Why are you defending him?"

" _I don't fucking know!_ "

There it is, the admission that he's scared about his feelings, or lack of, towards Hoffman. That he should be repulsed or enraged by him, not protective of him or sympathetic. That somewhere along the line, his judgement has become unreliable. Perez's expression changes and she looks almost pitying. "Don't," Peter says softly, turning away and putting his hands over his eyes. She wraps her arms around his waist, trying to avoid his injury, but it wouldn't matter if she did because he _needs_ this. Silently, he hugs her back, letting her ground him as she always has.

"You know I'm here, Peter," Perez tells him.

"I do," he whispers, resting his chin on her head. "I'm sorry about this. About everything."

She pulls back. "Do you think he will keep killing?"

"I know he will. And I know who."

His partner shakes her head. "I'm going to get us some drink and you can talk," she decides, then smiles sadly. "God. I missed you," she kisses his cheek, and they spend the rest of the night filling each other in about what's been happening. Perez says the department's become horribly wary and reluctant to get any more involved with the Jigsaw case.

"I did everything I could, but they were honestly willing to believe you did all this," Perez explains, getting angry over the injustice of it as she recalls. "It was easy for them to blame it all on you."

Strahm tells her about Jill Tuck, and how she tried to kill Hoffman.

"A reverse bear trap? For God's sakes, just put a bullet in his brain!"

"It's... the Jigsaw killers have this penchant for karma, and the overdramatic."

"How did he get out of it?"

Peter remembers asking Mark the same thing. "He... jammed it between two bars so it didn't open all the way. But I had to sew up his face..."

Perez blinks.

Peter moves swiftly on from his mercy towards Mark. "I threatened him with a knife to get away. I tried to surprise him, but he never trusted me anyway. He could have killed me."

"But he didn't."

Peter nods thoughtfully. _Exactly_. They're talking, and he's starting to realize that the way he's recounting his experience makes it sound like being with Mark wasn't too bad. It wasn't. At first it shocked him, and he tried everything he could to antagonize the other man to make everything less confusing, from telling him he was a terrible cop to a terrible killer, but Mark had always been patient and here was no different. He made compromises, saved his life more than once, and had on one occasion ordered pizza at Peter's request. It would be easy to see the world in black and white, with only good and evil, but the line was so blurred you could end up pitying a serial murderer.

Perez summed it up perfectly. "You thought he was going to be pure evil, but he wasn't, and that's confusing you. He's done good things and bad things. You had some history, so you felt betrayed when you discovered who he really was."

A light seems to go on in her eyes. An _I've just had a horrible epiphany_  kind of light. "Oh my God. Did you- did you guys-?"

The question remains unfinished, so if Peter were less prone to wearing his heart on his sleeve, he could have brushed it away. Alas, he's not, so the admission that _I fucked Mark Hoffman_  is actually written all over his face. Perez groans and puts her head in her hands.

"Before," Peter clarifies urgently. "Before I knew. Never after."  


"I'm now starting to get a picture of why you're so reluctant to put this bastard behind bars," Perez says, sounding aggrieved.   


"It's not that I-" Peter cuts himself off and tries again. "I would feel guilty."  


"Do you think he feels guilty?" snaps Perez.  


Peter can't answer, so she nods as though he's proved her point.   


"You should get some rest," she decides, changing the subject to take the heat off him. "I'll take the couch."  


"No, it's fine."  


"I'm not arguing. God knows where the fuck you've been sleeping for the past weeks."  


"Um, in a bed, actually," he says sheepishly.   


"Wait, not-"  


" _No_."  


Perez laughs. He laughs too, because it feels good and sometimes situations are so weird or loaded with tragedy that they just become funny.   


"I have a double bed," she ventures.   


Peter tilts his head. _Do you._  


"I mean, we can share. We're best friends."  


He smiles at her trying to reason with it. "Sure." He could've made a joke about her wanting to get into bed with him, but that's not what this is, and anyway, it's always really been him fawning over her.   


If Perez rolls over in the night and decides to spoon him, well, that's just because she's tactile- not to mention asleep- it has nothing to do with the fact that they've been apart for so long. It has nothing to do with trying to make Peter feel safe. If they wake up like that, no one's scrambling to move away. 

*

For a long time after Peter leaves, Hoffman doesn't move. His hands are shaking and Peter's blood dripped onto the carpet.   


He takes slow, long breaths, tells himself that this was always going to happen. Staying with him, like a prisoner with privileges, was no life for Peter, and it would have to come to an end. In fact, Peter was admirable for making the move that he did.

This doesn't stop Mark from feeling an unfathomably great loss. He knows now, that no one else can be trusted, through no one's fault but his own. 

He wanted to sleep but that's not going to happen now. Instead, he goes downstairs and takes out all the blueprints for his traps and the interiors of police and FBI departments that he and Peter had collected.

Focusing on how he will find Jill Tuck gives him something else to think about. She's going to die in a lot of pain, of that he will make sure, because now not only is her sentence being decided by her betrayal, but now John's and Peter's.   


-  


Breaking into the station was stupid and risky, but the police were so predictable, especially that tryhard bastard Gibson. Ever since Mark had saved his life and had that thrown back in his face, he made sure the rookie knew he'd never have his help again, which was not a good position to be in.   


He savors the look of utter terror in Jill's eyes. He could make a speech about betrayal, karma, or revenge, but that would give her time to dissociate away and not feel every drop of adrenaline coursing through her right now, because of him. In the end, he decided irony was best. She'll die in the reverse bear trap like she intended him to.   


He makes sure to maintain eye contact as it rips her jaws apart, spraying gore everywhere. Despite it being a favourite between the four of them, none of them had ever actually seen the results of the trap on a real human. It's more comical than he had expected.   


Feeling a sense of closure wash over him in waves, he leaves the building and Jill's body to be discovered.   


Then the familiar pig masks are staring him down, he's sinking to the floor and fuck. Fuck.   


"What the fuck," he feels himself say, because even though he should have seen it coming from the underhanded, evil, soulless fucker, it's still a shock.   


They always had a rivalry, but Mark didn't think Lawrence would have the guts to try and _kill_  him.   


*

 

"Peter, wake up."  


"Hm?"  


He blinks, rolls over and smiles up at Perez.   


Unfazed, she gives the news.  


"Jill Tuck is dead."  


Suddenly awake, he sits up, trying to process that. He didn't think Hoffman would move so quickly.   


"I got the call. I have to go. You can't go anywhere, they're still looking for you."  


"Be careful," Strahm tells her, reaches out and brushes the scars on her face.   


"I will," she answers, holding his wrist. "I might be back late, the department sounds like chaos."  


"Just wait till the press gets a hold of it. Jigsaw Killer Lives On."  


"Or you could just tell them who the killer is."  


"Or I could _not do that_ ," Peter counters firmly.  


"It's your reputation on the line right now," she shrugs.   


"He'll stop after this. I know he will."  


Perez gives him one of her disapproving looks on her way out.   


Strahm is hoping that everything will slow down after this. The interest in the case will die down. He'll have to convince Perez to run away to Greece with him, or something.   


He showers, gets dressed and makes himself a coffee. He'll wait for Perez to come home so he can make her dinner.   


*  


"You said he would stop."  


"What?" Peter blinks. It catches him off guard when she gets home; it's eleven thirty and he'd almost fallen asleep.   


"There's a new game being set up. I can't believe this. I'm going to tell them, Peter. It's gone far enough."

"No, no, no, you can't," he begs, standing up beside her. "This isn't right.”

 

"Exactly."  


"Please, Lin. I have to- I have to think this through."  


"Why can't you just accept that Hoffman is a deluded serial killer who's _never going to change?"_  


"Because he's not. He told me he was finishing Jigsaw's work, which he did. The last game was supposed to be the end. And then Jill Tuck tried to kill him, so he was going after her for revenge, but he said he would stop."  


"I bet he said that after every kill. Why would he need to keep killing when Jigsaw is dead?"   


"To finish his work... Hoffman was loyal to him. He believed in his method, and this was supposed to be the last of it..."  


"So you're saying it's not Hoffman?"  


"I'm saying... oh my God," Peter says, trailing off into a whisper.   


"What?!"  


"I got shot when we were trying to... to kidnap someone, for a game. And Hoffman called this guy... 'Lawrence'... to come and fix me up."  


"So you think it might be 'Lawrence'?"  


"When I saw him, I thought I recognized him. Do you remember that woman and her kid, who claimed someone was holding her husband hostage? And that she got forced to tell him things on the phone, by a crazy burglar?"  


"It's... it rings a bell."  


"It cropped up when we trying to find out how long Jigsaw had been making games. It was years ago, but she said her husband was stuck in a room with another man she knew, and we had to get him out."  


"Did they find him?"  


"No. And his name was _Lawrence_. He was a fucking doctor!"  


"Jesus Christ," Perez mutters.   


"We've got to find Hoffman. He's the only one that knows anything about Lawrence Gordon."  


"No way."  


"We have to. He's our only lead."  


"Peter- you just want to see him again."  


Peter turns defensive. "That's not fair."  


"It's the truth. Don't you think I know you enough?"   


Peter sighs, sits back down and puts his head in his hands. "It's not like that."  


Perez sits beside him. "He wasn't at work today. It's the first time I would have seen him since... He's always there for the Jigsaw cases, and no one could tell me where he was."  


"That's odd."

"I know. Maybe things went south with Jill?"

"I don't know," he mutters. Now he's worried, and that's just stupid. Not only can Mark take care of himself, he also deserves whatever he might be getting. Peter's heart constricts uncomfortable at the thought of that, to his disgust.

"I'm not gonna deny that maybe I want to see Hoffman, for reasons I don't understand," he declares. "But I really think we need his help if another Jigsaw apprentice is taking over."  


He looks up at Perez, who looks back, conflicted.   


"I know you're right. It's just so dangerous to do this alone."  


"We have each other," says Peter brightly, and she laughs in disbelief.   


"I can't believe I'm doing this."  


"I know. Me neither. Let's do it."

*

 When they went for the door, it wasn't locked. Peter had been psyching himself up to explain everything right there on the doorstep, but they broke in and after a sweep of the house there was clearly no one home.  
 

"He's not in," Peter deduces.

"You're sure?"

They check the rest of the house nervously. To Peter, it's familiar, but to Perez it's a twisted illusion of a normal household, littered with instruments of torture just under the surface, shoved into a cupboard or piled up in the basement.

"So, he's gone out. Do you want to wait?" Perez asks eventually. Peter looks fretful. "I just don't get it," he says. "He was never out at this time. I don't know."

"Maybe he's still cleaning up."

"Yeah..."

She watches him pace around the room, picking things up and moving them around.

"Why wouldn't he lock the door?" Peter asks. He sighs, annoyed, sitting down.

"He could have forgotten to."

"I don't _think_  so," he returns, almost snappishly, and only then does Perez realize that Peter is honestly _worried_. She doesn't really feel equipped to deal with this.

"I'm waiting till he comes back," he decides. "You can go, if you want."

"Don't be stupid, I'm not leaving you alone."

He smiles tensely.

Peter won't sleep at all, but Perez can feel the long day catching up with her. He suggests she sleep on the couch and even though it seems weird, she's too tired to object. She falls asleep not long after curling up, watching his silhouette as he peers out the window.

The next thing she knows, he's shaking her awake.

"Hey. Your phone's ringing."

Blinking away sleep, she takes the mobile off him.

"Perez."

There's a brief conversation on the phone and then she hangs up. 

"That's Thomson asking if I've seen Hoffman."

"If you've seen him? Why you?"

 "He was apparently supposed to be in early this morning to bring all the files from the cases of suspected copycat Jigsaw Killers- including you- but he hasn't showed up."

 "Well obviously. His badge is still here."

 "Right. So where is he? Hoffman isn't the type of guy to arouse suspicion not coming into work. I swear he's never missed a day off in twenty years."

 "Then... he's missing."

 Peter starts pacing again, a frown etched into his features.

 He stops. "I'm going to check all the paperwork in the basement. That's where he keeps details of the cases he was involved in."

 "So you think he has files on Lawrence Gordon's 'kidnapping'?"

 "It's worth a shot."

 Perez follows him down to the basement, slightly apprehensive. This is the house of a notorious serial murderer, and they're looking at his mementos and methods of his kills.

Peter begins to tackle mountains of folders. They seem to be organized in some way, but it's unfathomable to them.

 After about an hour of searching through old police cases Mark worked on, to the more recent Jigsaw killings, Perez finds something.

 "Look," she says. "It's Lawrence Gordon's medical records."

 Peter comes over to look, and finds that just under that, is a collection of CCTV photographs showing the interior of a dirty public bathroom.

 "That's what Gordon's wife said he described in the phone call," Peter explains, astonished. "We need to find out where that bathroom is."

 "It could be anywhere."

 "Yeah, but Hoffman knows where it is. He must have a record, somewhere."

 "Not necessarily."

 "Hey," Peter interjects. "I'm trying to be positive."  
 

Eventually their hard work pays off. They find a list of John Kramer's assets with some of the buildings crossed off. Next to three of them, there's an 'X'.

 "That could mean anything. It could be the ones that Hoffman set up games in, or ones they were planning to use but didn't, or-"

 "No," Peter shakes his head. "That one- Amanda Young played her first Jigsaw game there. It's where everyone assumed she beat her game and Jigsaw took her on because of it."

 She's always impressed with Peter's in depth knowledge of the Jigsaw case, almost bordering on obsession.

 "So those are where Jigsaw apprentices were recruited?"

 "If there are three 'X's, that's three apprentices. Young, Hoffman... and Gordon."

 "You think Gordon knew Jigsaw?"

 "What if they were all in competition with each other? Hoffman told me Amanda was becoming a liability... maybe he disposed of her."

 "That's messed up. And now Gordon's disposing of him?"

 Peter shivers. "But he won't just kill him."

 "Right, karmic deaths, yeah."

 Peter motions for Perez to hand over her cell, and he types something quickly. He spends a while poring over the resultant information.

 "One of those buildings is a hotel that's still in business. It's unlikely Kramer left someone in a public bathroom for an indefinite amount of time... and the other building is- no, it used to be a small factory."

 "It's abandoned?"

 "Or that's what we're supposed to think," Peter smiles grimly. "I have a feeling it won't be if we visit."

 Perez feels that familiar sensation of nerves, excitement, admiration and determination that she used to get when working with Peter. When presented with the right information, he always figured everything out. It's a shame that he's wasting his intellect on such a despicable person like Mark Hoffman.

 "No time to waste, then," she establishes, rolling her eyes.

*

 The old factory is terrifying. When they get there, there's a tall, skinny kid in a blue baseball cap loitering around the entrance.

 "Hey," he calls out in a smoke-roughened voice, "You can't come in here."

 "Sure we can," Perez answers, holding up her badge.

 The kid's eyes go wide. "Um- I was told not to let anyone in."

 "By who?"

 He huffs, kicks the floor. "It doesn't matter. Just don't tell anyone I let you in."  
Then he's off at a brisk pace down the street, keeping his head down and stealing furtive glances around him.

 "Efficient security," Peter comments dryly, although he suspects that kid belongs to a wider network that will soon be notified of their presence.

 The door doesn't take much work to kick through, held shut by a rusted padlock. Inside it's almost pitch black, the only light filtering in from broken windows.

 "The bathroom should be through here," Peter affirms, guiding them through a set of double doors. It leads them to an enclosed corridor. Walking down there and taking a turn, there's a large door blocking their way.

 "There it is," he whispers, feeling sick in his stomach. They advance together, discovering that when turning the handle, the door isn't locked.

 Peter turns to her and she nods encouragingly. He opens the door and the room that is revealed could be any size, containing anything, as it's in pitch black darkness. Instinctually terrified that something will reach out and grab him, he feels along the wall with shaking hands for the light switch, which mercifully works.

  Watching Peter's reaction when the light illuminates the bathroom seems like she's stumbled on a very private moment. He tries to school his expression into something neutral, but she picks up his fear and grief straight away.

 Peering inside, Perez can see there are two bodies in there- one, long-dead and decomposing, the other with any luck alive.

 "I have to do this on my own," he says faintly.

 She has to agree. She'll keep watch and make sure Hoffman won't hurt him, hasn't gone a little more insane after his spell in this shithole, but she has to let Peter have this moment. It's a reunion.

 Peter walks inside, his footsteps loud in the silence. His stomach churns as he approaches. On the other side of the room, a shrivelled corpse. He hopes to God that Mark hasn't gone the same way.

 "Hey," he says quietly, crouching in front of him.

 Mark doesn't respond, chin resting on his chest, eyes closed. He is breathing, but he looks sick and ghostly.

 "Mark," Peter tries, lifting a hesitant hand and tapping the other man's face in attempt to wake him.

 Before he can react, Mark grips his wrist.

 Despite his weakness, Peter doubts he could yank his hand away.

 They stare at each other. Peter doesn't know what he's feeling- relief, anxiety.

 "You're here," Mark says slowly. His voice sounds scratchy. He sounds like he can't quite believe it.

 "Yeah," Peter breathes. "We're the rescue team."

 "We?"

 "Me and Perez," he says sheepishly. Gently, he tugs his wrist from Mark's grasp. "Come on."

 He slings Hoffman's arm round his shoulder and pulls him up. He's much lighter. Peter isn't sure how many days he's been here, slowly going mad with hunger.

 Perez doesn't say anything but leads the way back to the car. She can't have any idea how grateful he is for her agreeing to help him.

 "Do you want to go back to your place or Perez's?" Peter asks.

 "It won't be safe at mine."

 "Oh," Peter replies, just as Perez deadpans, "Well, that's interesting, bearing in mind that's where we came from."

 "You were in my house? Why?"

 "I don't know," Peter mutters. "Maybe because you weren't at work, Jill Tuck was found dead, another game was being set up, and all the evidence was pointing to you, so I wanted to clear it up with you that you weren't responsible."

 "Why?"

 "You're asking all the right questions..." Perez comments.

 "Because I know it wasn't you?" Peter replies. "You told me you'd stop."

 "And you... believed me?"

 "Are you saying I shouldn't have?" Peter raises his voice in anger. Perez glances into the rearview mirror. "You were lying? Was that it, or were you lying about everything else?"

 "Everything else?"

 "I didn't have to do this!" he exclaims. "I could've have left you to _rot_ , but I didn't, and you're being so difficult, how the f- are you okay?" he does an unexpected U-turn as he watches Mark squeeze his eyes shut and inhale sharply.

 After a moment, it seems to pass. Mark opens his eyes and studies him. Peter feels like he's been caught out, and they're both looking at him like he's insane.

 "Yeah," Mark says, and turns to look out the window.

 Peter doesn't meet Perez's gaze.

*

Perez was always better at biology. Peter would assume that a person suffering from malnutrition needs a few Big Mac meals inside of them right away, but that isn't actually the case.

 "He'll be sick," Perez relays under her breath. "I'll get him... some soup, or something. I can't believe I'm doing this."

"Thanks," he whispers, then turns to Mark. "Do you want anything?"

 "A drink," he says darkly, unused voice cracking, not having to specify he means alcohol.

 "I don't think that's a good idea," Peter replies measuredly, getting an unimpressed death glare in return.

 He offers a shower, leaving some spare clothes in the bathroom. Hell, he must feel so _dirty_ , in that grimy hellhole for days on end covered in God knows what breathing in the stench of decomposition.

 Hoffman looks a little better when he comes back from the shower, but he needs food.  
He brings back some water and Mark takes it, sipping carefully. He wonders what the other man is thinking, but he always has.  
Perez returns with soup in a cup and a bag of chips. _Where's mine?_  Peter asks silently. She shrugs, slamming the cup down on the table harder than necessary.

 "Okay," she announces. "I need to know everything that's going on, or I'm calling the entire Bureau here."

 Mark narrows his eyes, but Peter understands his lack of objection as an invitation to continue.

 "Do you know who's carrying on the games?" Perez asks shortly, putting a chip into her mouth like a surreal power move.

 "Yes."

 "Don't get cocky with me," she tells him straight away. "Who is it?"

 "Lawrence Gordon."

 The two agents share a meaningful look.

 "Can I ask a question?" Mark interrupts. He goes ahead anyway. "How did you know where I was? The police and FBI searched for that bathroom for months and no one ever found it."

 "We had access to your records," Peter explains. "In your house," he clarifies. "We suspected Gordon, so we searched for the bathroom his wife claimed he described in a phone call."

 Mark has the grace to look impressed, shaking his head minutely as though he should have expected as much.

 "You can see why I wanted him on my side," he remarks to Perez, who inclines her head. It's true.

 "Are you going to keep me here?" he asks in that familiar tone which implies he doesn't care at all about the answer.

 Peter glances at Perez, who remains impassive, leaving the decision down to him.

 "I... I thought you might want to go after Gordon. And we want the Jigsaw murders to end. So I was thinking we might have... a shared interest, in that," he suggests carefully.

 Mark takes another sip. "I see."

 "There will be rules," Perez warns. "No killing, no torture, nothing that implicates us at all. We have to clear Peter's name," she finishes softly.

 "You don't have to decide right now," Peter offers, and he knows that kindness irritates his partner. "You can rest first."

 Mark gives him an unreadable expression. Peter elects to interpret it as gratitude.

 "Sleep on the couch," Perez directs disdainfully. "I'm going to bed. If there's any trouble- which there won't be- I'm a room away."

 She leaves them to it, understanding that Peter has things he wants to say.

 Peter sits down on the opposite chair. "I love her, you know," he remarks, surprising himself.

 Mark almost attempts a rueful smile. "I know."  
He sets his finished soup down on the table.

 "Do you want anything else?" Peter asks attentively.

 "No, Peter," he replies, dragging out his name possibly unintentionally. It's that suddenly vulnerable situation that makes all of Peter's compartmentalized feelings come out like Pandora's fucking box. He struggles to pick out which one to address first, but Mark helps him out.

 "You should have let me die," he asserts.

"I couldn't," Peter states simply.

 "I was ready to. I never thought you would..."

 "You saved me," he begins, pleading internally with his words to come out less emotional. "Twice. It seemed right, to return the favor."

 "You deserved that. I don't."

 "Don't say that."

 "It's true, and you know it."

 "You told me everyone deserves a chance. That's why-"

 "I had my chance. Kramer gave me my chance. All of this is my fault and you shouldn't have gotten involved. I think," Mark takes a deep breath, "you should just stay away from me."

 Peter stands up, agitated. "Stay away from you?" he tries to control the volume of his voice, but it rises with his anger. "You made me stay with you and you didn't think that would do something to me? Pretending everything was normal and that we were- I don't even know what we were, God damn it- you didn't think I'd start to believe it?" Before he can even tell his brain that's enough, the words, "You didn't think I'd start to care?" have already spilled out.

 Mark stands up too, a little more effort going into it. "You're right. You're describing... symptoms. You don't really care about me, I just made you. I put you in that situation where you had to cope somehow. You think you feel something other than hatred for me, but you don't, you _don't_."

 "You of all people can't tell me about _feeling_ ," Peter hisses furiously. "You've never experienced a human emotion in your life. The only time you light up is when you're talking about fucking killing people-"

 Mark nods. "You see?" he says resignedly. "That's what you really think."

 "You're just trying to confuse me!" Peter shouts, and watches in horror as Mark suddenly sways, and he compels himself to move forward and steady him.

 Now they are close, and Peter has missed this, has missed _him_ , and he hates himself for it.

 "I'm okay," Mark mutters, but his hands go up to hold Peter's elbows.

 "Listen," Peter says and his voice sounds fast and far away. "I do care about you. I thought evil was real when I met you and I'm not that close to reassessing. Sometimes I don't even know what I feel. But I know that the possibility of you being dead," he quickens, "really made me sick for a while. So just- just work with me, pretend we're normal, and we'll go from there."

 He steps back a little to study the killer's reaction. Muted, as usual. Frustratingly so.

 "You'll help us find Gordon?" he requests.

 Mark looks him in the eye. "You know I will."

 "Good," Peter exhales, relieved. "That's good."

 He paces back, trying to clear his head. It's been a long day. Mark must be dead on his feet.

 "I missed you," he admits, not making eye contact for the sheer stupidity of the statement.

 He feels Mark's gaze on him for a second, then watches him settle back onto the couch and tiredly press his hands to his eyes.

 "Me too," he mutters, too quiet, but Peter catches it. The grin that passes over his face has to be almost hysterical and he can't fight it.

 He sits down and tucks his knees up to his face, unwilling to let Hoffman out of his sight just yet.

 Tomorrow everything will be different, but right now, it all feels like it's going to work out. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the H/S anthem 'Playing with Fire' by RIVRS ! 
> 
> This whole fic makes no sense and there is no way in hell that Hoffman would have saved Strahm, just out of spite. Thanks for reading. :)


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